


A Good Connection

by bienenalster (pinkspider)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Daddy Issues, Gen, Gratuitous Cat Cameos, Parent-Child Relationship, Snarky Parents, exes to friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:31:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7324285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkspider/pseuds/bienenalster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was hard to get over his childhood hero worship, although he was completely rid of his initial shock and nerves that Bad Bob’s kid was on the same team as him. Even with Jack right there, a close connection to Kent’s old hockey role model, Bad Bob wasn’t just a normal guy. To Kent, he still seemed like some kind of fantastic hockey god, crash-landed from some other place where everyone was more than human. Stronger. Better. More weirdly wholesome and flawless.</p><p>And that’s how Kent would be someday. Perfectly in control. Untouchable.</p><p>Or, it takes Kent Parson about a decade to kinda sorta get his shit together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Connection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [esapastrnak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esapastrnak/gifts).



**2007**  
Kent had picked up his hackey sack habit from Jeanine, the burnt out ex-hippie who lived downstairs from Mom and had often watched him after school or when he had days off and Mom didn’t. Kent liked the challenge of not letting the ball drop, of carefully controlling how hard he hit it in what direction. Looking back, it was an ingenious way to handle a rambunctious kid when it was too snowy or too rainy or too bothersome to go outside. It had also been a pretty good way to hone his hand-eye coordination. Now, at 16, he still kept a hackey sack in his pocket most days, just waiting for when he was trapped and needed something to do with himself.

For example, when Jack insisted on them doing homework during one of their few patches of precious free time. The sun shining through the window of Jack’s second floor bedroom was practically taunting Kent. It was a perfect day.

He’d abandoned his history textbook ages ago, but Jack was still hunched over at his desk. Finally, a beautiful spring day and here he was, lying on his back on the boring beige carpet while idly batting his hackey sack around and staring at Jack’s back while the great French-Canadian Boy Scout did his stupid biology reading.

“Hey, Jack.”

“Hm,” Jack responded without moving a muscle.

“Jack. Come on, let’s go somewhere.” Jack ignored him, the dick. “Jack, come on.” Jack still didn’t say anything, so Kent lobbed the hackey sack at him, hitting Jack squarely in the back of his head.

“Parse, cut it out.”

Jack still didn’t miss a beat or move a muscle.

“Let’s go do something,” Kent whined. “Haven’t you had enough homework yet?”

”Some of it’s interesting,” Jack’s voice took on that gruff, stern tone that made him sound about thirty-six.

”What do you need with school anyway, you nerd?” Kent pressed. “We’re going to the NHL, not Harvard. Now, come on, get your ass in gear and let’s go.”

”I have to have all this finished by Monday.”

”So just do the rest after the game tomorrow.”

”I can’t. I promised I’d spend the rest of the day with my parents.”

”Your parents?” Kent asked.

”Yes. They’re coming in for the game tomorrow,” Jack mumbled, still totally absorbed in his textbook.

”Whoah,” Kent breathed, and then immediately kicked himself for how starstruck he sounded.

But at the same time, how could he not be? Bad Bob Zimmermann had always been one of Kent’s favorite players, ever since he was tiny. Back home, Bad Bob’s rookie card was still in the shoebox nestled in a corner of Kent’s closet. He had practically _idolized_ Bad Bob growing up, like the guy was more than just human.

”They’re coming to the game? That’s cool,” Kent offered, and he was pretty sure it came out breezy like it should’ve to begin with.

Jack still didn’t turn around when he said, “Yeah, they’re just here for the day though.”

Kent started to ask a question, but Jack didn’t hear him. ”They want to do family stuff, you know?” he continued. “After the game.” Jack closed his book with a snap and turned around in his seat. “I’ll introduce if you want.”

”That’d be cool,” Kent said. “Uh, thanks.”

“No problem,” replied Jack. “You’re right, though, I don’t have to finish this now. What’d you want to go do?”

Kent didn’t actually have an answer to that, so he just shrugged and said, “I dunno, whatever.” Jack rolled his eyes.

It was funny, but Kent always thought that Bad Bob looked a little like Superman, even though he never told anyone because it was kind of a lame thing to think. Only, his hair wasn't the right style. Kent still thought there was a resemblance. It was hard to get over his childhood hero worship, although he was completely rid of his initial shock and nerves that Bad Bob’s kid was on the same team as him. Even with Jack right there, a close connection to Kent’s old hockey role model, Bad Bob wasn’t just a normal guy. To Kent, he still seemed like some kind of fantastic hockey god, crash-landed from some other place where everyone was more than human. Stronger. Better. More weirdly wholesome and flawless.

Like Superman, Bad Bob also seemed a little boring, on the surface. He was almost too perfect - strong, fast, talented, and clutch as hell. Off the ice, there was never the wrong word, no scandals, he had the most beautiful wife ever (a model!) and they were always volunteering together and attending classy charity parties and stuff. He seemed to be everything that an athlete should be.

Like Superman, Bad Bob Zimmermann had to have a second identity, someone else he was when he wasn't wearing his jersey and there wasn't a camera on him. Maybe Bad Bob was a jerk. Maybe he doped, or did crack cocaine in his spare time, or cheated on his wife, or, who knew, kicked puppies. He could be terrible. Kent hoped he wasn't, and he didn't think that Bad Bob could actually be all _that_ terrible. But that wasn't the point. He seemed beyond reproach - not the kind of guy to get sent to the principal's office all the time like Kent always used to be until Mom and his coaches laid down the law and threatened to take hockey away - but it had to be at least kind of a front, right?

Just, a way better front than a normal person or even a normal pro athlete. With Bad Bob, you saw the superhuman talent and persona, and nothing he didn’t want you to see.

And that’s how Kent would be. Perfectly in control. Untouchable.

On Sunday, Kent could tell from the tone in the locker room and the content of the pre-game chatter that he was the only one who knew the Zimmermanns would be in the audience. If Jack was quiet and tense, that was normal. Kent wouldn’t have suspected if Jack hadn’t told him.

So, he kept his mouth shut. He could see Jack not wanting other people to know. When Kent met Jack, one of his first thoughts was, _If I hang out with him, maybe I could meet Bad Bob. What a good connection to have._

After all, Bad Bob wasn’t your average dad. Kent had kind of assumed that Jack would be more of a prick about who his dad was, but then he wasn’t. Instead, he was just Jack. Kind of cool, kind of a dweeb. Now it seemed dumb he ever thought that Jack would brag about it.

So he laced up his skates like normal, chatted with King and Brown and the others like normal. But on the inside, he was extra keyed up, ready to go, ready to tear shit up and show one of the best players ever what he could do. _I’m on my way, and sooner rather than later, I’ll be right up there with you._

It wasn't the Oceanic’s finest hour. Jack scored once but he was the only one. Kent only notched an assist, a handful of close calls, and what felt like a bone bruise in the making on his right arm from running into the goal post weirdly during the second period. It hurt but mostly he just felt deflated.

When Kent got out of the shower, Jack was waiting by his stall, tossing a roll of tape from one hand to the other.

”Hey,” said Kent as he started getting dressed again.

”Hey. That was a good pass, the one in the last period. You played a good game.”

”Thanks,” said Kent. He knew Jack was right. Individually they'd done fine. The Ramparts had just outplayed them. It still blew. Especially for that evening.

”Want a ride home?” asked Jack. Kent paused.

”Yeah,” he pulled his shirt over his head. “Thanks.” It was stupid. A burst of excitement squeezed his ribs. So damned stupid. He finished dressing, and he and Jack went into the parking lot. Jack looked at his phone and then led Kent toward a silver SUV that glinted in the sunlight.

The Zimmermanns were waiting next to their car. Bad Bob was wearing a baseball cap with the brim pulled down towards his face. If you didn't know to look for Bad Bob, you wouldn't recognize him. Mrs. Zimmermann came forward to give Jack a hug, then Bad Bob did. He still looked so much like the card in the shoebox.

“Mom, Dad, this is Kent Parson,” said Jack.

Kent grinned up at them. They were both unfairly tall. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

”Oh, so you’re the ‘Parse’ we've heard so much about,” said Mrs. Zimmermann as she reached out to shake Kent’s hand. (“Maman!” Jack hissed in the background.)

”You played well,” Bad Bob told Kent as he shook his hand. “Jack’s right, you got a great eye. It’s very nice to meet you.”

”Thanks,” said Kent. He could feel a giant grin spread across his face despite himself.

They followed the Zimmermanns to their car. When the doors opened, the car actually lowered itself a little close to the ground.

”If the seats are too warm, the controls are on the center console,” Alicia told him, twisting around in the driver’s seat.

It was only about a fifteen minute drive to Kent’s billet. The whole time, Bad Bob kept up a steady chatter with Jack and Kent, briefly dissecting the game, asking what Kent thought about Rimouski. He tested Kent’s French. Both Jack and Mrs. Zimmermann groaned, and Bad Bob laughed good-naturedly. They let Kent out at the curb, and he thanked them politely for the ride.

A little stunned, Kent waved as they drove away. It was surreal.

_Bad Bob Zimmermann thought he had a good eye._

Mrs. Zimmermann’s car turned the corner, leaving Kent completely alone on the lawn of his billet house.

” _Yes!_ ,” he exclaimed, punctuating the feeling with a fist pump. He walked on air all the way to his room.

 

 **2008**  
At first, Kent had thought that moving to Quebec was a cosmic shift in his life. It was a whole other country. People spoke French there -- weird French -- and then there were the small changes. Everywhere there were Tim Hortons instead of Dunkin Donuts, Pharmaprix instead of Rite Aids. Cross the border and you’re in a different world.

2007 Kent didn’t know shit. Canada and America were cut from the same cloth. The Czech Republic was something else entirely. He hadn’t seen much of Pardubice because he was so caught up with games and practice and conditioning, but when he did go out, it was a confusing whirlwind of lilting vowels and “sh” or “z” noises in the wrong places. The signs had way too many accent marks. It wasn’t anything like French or English. Kent was so damned confused. It was probably what it was like for the guys Kent snuck in and took the puck away from. 

It was so awesome.

Fuck all those kids back in mites. Not only was Kent not too little to play hockey professionally, here he was, flown across continents to make America proud. (Born on the fourth of July, motherfuckers. The press had noted that fact a bunch of times, though without the expletives.)

”I can’t believe I’m fraternizing with the enemy or whatever,” Kent said, shuffling from one foot to the other.

”It’ll be better to lose to a friend, though, won’t it?” Jack kept a straight face, but he was watching Kent from the corner of his eye.

”Whatever,” Kent scoffed as he smacked Jack in the back of the head. They were both grinning widely now, content and giddy and expectant.

”It will be,” said Jack, patting Kent obnoxiously on the head. Kent yanked him down by his scarf, catching him and giving him noogies. Jack’s struggle to get away was just for show. He was laughing as hard as Kent. Jack finally pulled away - he held Kent out at arm’s distance and glanced around them. It was early. They were alone on the platform. So, Jack reached out to smooth back Kent’s cowlick, stroking his hand down the side of Kent’s temple and cradling his jaw. Kent closed the distance between them and kissed the corner of Jack’s mouth. Jack turned into the kiss and deepened it --

\-- the train from the airport came rumbling down the tracks, and they sprang away from each other guiltily.

Their parents were among the first to come out. “Hey, Mom!” Kent called. She and the Zimmermanns turned and looked in their direction, breaking out into big grins. Kent broke into a jog, leaving Jack behind, and caught Mom up in a big bear hug.

”Glad to see you too!” she laughed.

”It’s so cool you were able to come! Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Z. How’s it going?” He let Mom go and took her bag instead.

”Good.” said Mrs. Z. “We’ve been seeing a lot of you in highlights. You’re going to give Jack some real competition, aren’t you?”

”Heck yeah,” he replied. Jack caught up with them to take Mrs. Z’s suitcase. Jack, Kent noticed, was still blushing. It was cold out. No big.

”Hello!” Mr. Z greeted Jack with a brief hug. “Kent, great to see you too. You’ve been playing so well. It’ll be a shame to watch the US lose, with that kind of performance.”

”Puh-lease.” Kent rolled his eyes. “You wish, Mr. Z.”

Jack was still blushing, but he snorted at the trash talk. “No, it won’t be. Hi, Mrs. Parson. It won’t be a shame to see you lose, I mean,” he clarified, turning back. Kent just rolled his eyes and led the way back to the streetcar stop, leaving Jack behind.

”C’mon, Mom, let’s get you to the hotel.” The Parents Z were laughing as they followed Kent and Mom.

”Hey, let’s all meet up for dinner together. Oh! How about you and I go sightseeing and grab some lunch tomorrow, too?” said Mrs. Z to Kent’s mom once they got situated on the streetcar. Mrs. Z was probably one of the friendliest people Kent had ever met. It was all 100% real, too.

”That’d be great,” Mom replied, and then the two of them started chatting about international travel (Mrs. Z loved it, while Kent’s mom hadn’t ever left the US but she was sure she was going to love it). At the hotel, they parted ways. Kent and Mom ditched her bag and went right back out for a walk.

”Aren’t you jetlagged?” he asked her.

”Nuh-uh. I’m in Europe, I’m gonna make the most of it.”

”Whatever you want,” he said.

”How far away is the arena?” Her eyes were darting around but she only actually turned her head occasionally. He was pretty sure she was stopping herself from gawking. Once he was in the big leagues getting the big bucks, he’d send her to Paris and Rome and wherever she wanted to see. They could go to Costa Rica together in the summer.

”It’s just a couple stops from here. We can walk it. You wanna?” She did wanna. They stopped for coffee on the way. She was in high spirits, joking and laughing and chatting. It was nice. Between hockey, Jack, and the endless slog of mandatory school, Kent occasionally forgot to miss Mom. He tried not to feel too bad about it, especially since he was certain she’d say it was stupid. From the moment he announced that he wanted to play in the NHL someday, she’d said okay, and never stopped saying okay. Going to Rimouski and now the World Juniors was exactly what she wanted him to be doing. This was where he was supposed to be.

ČEZ Aréna was non-assuming, as arenas go. Run of the mill. They stood on the opposite side of the street, clutching paper cups of coffee and staring at the arena.

”Kent, I am so, so proud of you, however this tournament turns out.”

”Thanks, Mom.” He gave her a giant hug. “I’m glad you could make it out here.”

Kent had the time, so they went to the East Bohemian gallery. They were standing in front of a case of European swords when suddenly, she piped up. “You get along real well with Jack and his family, don’t you?”

”Yeah, they’re cool.”

”It’s good you found,” she paused, and Kent tensed up til she continued, “a good friend like him.” There was a weird emphasis on the word ‘friend.’ He side-eyed her. What did _that_ mean? Did she know? Probably not. Did she suspect? … probably not. He hoped not.

”And it’s such a relief to me that Bob and Alicia are such lovely people,” she went on, like she hadn’t just said… whatever it was she was saying. “It’s good that you have a connection like him, someone who can give you advice.”

”Yeah,” he seized this new thread with relief. “Mr. Z is great. He knows _everything_ , you know? I mean, I don’t see him that much, but it’s like having an extra coach just for me. Well, and Jack. And he’s also like a media coach. He offered to help me find an agent.”

”He told me that, while we were on the train from the airport. You’re going to take him up on it, right?”

”Of course.”

She cleared her throat, and the weird tone was back to her voice when she said: “Your dad says good luck.”

”That’s nice,” Kent said flatly, knowing she’d take the hint. He hadn’t seen his dad since he was eight, and he was 110% okay with that. He didn’t understand why Mom still talked to him, even if it was once in a blue moon. Ever since he was about eleven, she’d tiptoed around the subject of Kent seeing his dad more often. Maybe he could come see Kent play. Maybe they should let him come to Thanksgiving one year, if Kent didn’t want to go see him. Well, maybe Mom had forgiven him, but Kent hadn’t, and he thought that was just fine.

He checked his watch. “Think we should get back to the hotel soon? To meet the Zimmermanns for dinner?”

Mom just put an arm around him and let the topic drop, like always. ”Sure. One more room?”

”Yeah.”

She squeezed his shoulder then let go. He followed her into the next room, doing his best to shake off his worries. It didn’t matter. She was cool. She wouldn’t make him talk about things he didn’t want to talk about, talk to people he didn’t want to talk to.

He was in the Czech Republic with Mom, he’d be starting the World Juniors finals the next day, and the future was bright.

 

 **2009**  
When Kent woke up, Jack was already up and gone. Kent rolled over into the rumpled sheets where Jack had been, unwilling to get up just yet. The Zimmermann Family Palace, as Kent called it internally (and aloud when he wanted to make Jack roll his eyes), was huge. It was the nicest house in the nicest neighborhood and way classier than anything Kent ever saw when he got suckered into sitting in front of HGTV with Mom. It was all wood floors and marble countertops and tasteful chandeliers and glass walls. And it was huge. Mr. and Mrs. Z’s room was on the first floor and other corner of the house, while Jack’s room and the guest room Kent was staying in were on the second floor. They could be in another building entirely for all the likelihood of them ever catching Kent sneaking into Jack's bed.

They probably didn’t know it was something they should worry about, but then, who could say what their parents guessed or didn’t. Who cared. It was a problem for future Kent. All that crap would just kind of sort itself out later.

He got dressed and headed downstairs. He’d gone looking for Jack earlier in the week and had called his name despite himself, just like he would’ve done back in the apartment with Mom. It didn’t echo because of all the furniture, but it would’ve otherwise, and it made Kent weirdly embarrassed even though no one heard him. So this time, he passed quietly through the kitchen and the gym before giving up and taking a seat on the living room couch. He sent Jack a text. A couple magazines were scattered on the coffee table in front of him.

His own face stared out at him. He vaguely remembered that photo shoot and had seen the photos from it re-used on a number of websites and magazines. As long as he could remember, he’d planned on having to give so many interviews and shoots that they would eventually blur together, but now that it was finally happening, he was just kind of weirded out. He picked the magazine up and flipped through it a little.

There was a two page spread breaking down the advantages of choosing each of them. Little lines connected their hands and feet and eyes to text boxes, which contained an analysis of a pertinent skill. According to the graphic, Jack brought superior size and leadership qualities to the table, while Kent had the edge when it came to speed and stick handling. Apparently, they were about equal when it came to hockey sense, versatility as forward, and overall points. But there was one box sprouting out from Jack's chest declaring that he brought "Legacy" that "would have to be highly tempting for an expansion team like the Aces."

”It does eventually stop being weird to see yourself on magazines.”

Kent jumped. “Oh. Hey, Mr. Z.”

Coffee in hand, Mr. Z leaned against the back of the couch, reading the spread over Kent’s shoulder.

"Hmm. The name," Mr. Z sighed. "Can't blame them for being interested in it, but it doesn't matter as much as they think. You boys both earned the right to be where you are, and any team would be glad to have either of you. Good thing there's scouting and not just the media, eh?”

”Yeah,” Kent mumbled, trying his best to not sound bitter. It was weird to discuss the Zimmermann legacy with Bad Bob himself. Sometimes, it made Kent feel like a real shithead and a bad friend that he secretly resented it. It really _was _an unfair advantage, though.__

"The media are alright." Bob chuckled - apparently Kent’s voice gave him away. "They're just doing their jobs," he continued, "and most are decent guys, even if it doesn't always feel like it. He's right about your speed, you know. I don't know a lot of skaters as fast as you."

Kent grinned. "Thanks," he said.

“He’s got the leadership skills wrong, though. I’ve seen what you do on the ice, even if you don’t wear the C, and from what Jack says, you bring a lot to the locker room. I’d tell you it’s best to ignore the media, but we both know that’s not realistic. You seem like you’re handling this well, though.”

”Uh, thanks,” said Kent again. He was pretty sure Jack was just making him _look_ good in comparison, with the non-stop freakout he’d been having for the last year. He put the magazine back down. “Did Jack go somewhere?”

“To the grocery store with Alicia. They’ll be back in about an hour.” He paused briefly. “Hey, want to play a game of pickup?”

“Sure,” said Kent. Mr. Z put down his coffee on the table.

Kent followed him to the half-court in the backyard. Mrs. Z, Jack had told him before, was a basketball nut who consistently won Zimmermann family 1 on 1s. Basketball wasn’t Kent’s game, so he was a bit relieved when Mr. Z suggested HORSE.

He shouldn’t have been.

“What can I say?” Mr. Z said, as Kent whiffed his shot. Again. He was at HOR to Mr. Z’s H. Taking a swig of water, Mr. Z looked downright smug. ”I’ve learned a thing or two from Alicia.”

Kent finally made the shot and tossed the ball back to him. “Hey, can I ask a question?”

”Ask away.”

”What was it like going first?”

”Amazing. And stressful.” Mr. Z stopped lining up a shot and started dribbling instead. “It was all uncharted territory for me. I had to rely on my agent pretty completely. I didn’t know anyone who’d ever done anything like this. And my first contract was more money than anyone in my family had ever had.” He chuckled at himself, a little. “I definitely got myself into a little trouble… And there’s more that you and Jack have to navigate, what with social media and everything. Listen to the PR people and be careful.”

Kent nodded. He’d gotten the same advice from a number of people, but coming from _Bad Bob Zimmermann_ it had a lot more weight. Mr. Z caught the ball and, holding it under one arm, walked over to Kent and put a hand on his shoulder. “Kent, you’re a phenomenal player. Wherever you end up, they’ll be very lucky to have you. And no matter what, if you ever need anything, Alicia and I are here for you.”

Kent’s throat tightened, and he didn’t trust himself to speak, which was good, because he had no idea what in the world to say to that. Instead he nodded. Mr. Z’s eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, and he opened his mouth as if to say something. Just then the door opened, and Mrs. Z and Jack walked out in the backyard.

”Basketball time? Without me?” Mrs. Z put her hand to her heart, feigning hurt in a way that should’ve been dorky, but wasn’t, because it was her. “How about a game of two on two, boys? I call Kent - blondes gotta stick together.”

Mr. Z squeezed Kent’s shoulder and turned to his wife. “You’re on.”

Six weeks later, Kent stared at his phone. He’d left Jack more voicemails than he could count and he’d eventually stopped trying. It was time for a different tactic. He hit the dial button.

”Zimmermann residence,” Mr. Z’s voice was on the other end. He sounded tired, like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in weeks and didn’t think he’d ever have one ever again. He sounded like Kent felt most of the time.

The speech Kent had prepared evaporated on his tongue. His heartbeat was almost painful.

Mr. Z's ragged voice came down the line. "Hello?"

He knew he needed to speak up, dammit. Ask how Jack was, how Mr. and Mrs. Z were, what was going on. Say he thought about them all the time, that he was sorry, that he needed to talk to Jack. Something, anything.

Instead he hung up and slammed his phone down on his desk. Only then did he realize he was breathing fast, heavy, like he'd just skated a million laps. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed Mr. and Mrs. Z, too, until he'd picked up the phone. Crossing to his bed, he picked up his pillow and punched it for a minute because he was scared he might cry otherwise.

Once he felt calm and in control again, he left his room and headed towards the kitchen where he was sure Mom would be starting on dinner and he'd be able to pretend that nothing was wrong. After all, he'd gone first. There was a one-way ticket to Vegas with his name on it, and a one way contract waiting for him to make good. He wouldn't disappoint. He'd tear it up. He'd rack up the points and the awards and the acclaim. He'd buy Mom a new house because she deserved it. He'd get a cool car because that was what you did. He'd live large because he'd earned it fair and square.

His dreams were coming true.

A week later, Kent’s phone rang. He was in a hotel a few miles away from the Strip, waiting for Mom to finish showering so they could go to dinner. The caller ID read “Zimmermann Family Palace.” He answered at the second ring and sat down, heavily, on the corner of his bed.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi, Kent.” It was Mr. Z. “How are you?”

”Good,” Kent said. He wasn’t prepared for this.

”I’m sorry I didn't call you back sooner. It's been… Bad around here. I’ll just be blunt. Jack is in rehab, Kent.” Mr. Z’s voice shook a little on the word ‘rehab.’ “He knows you called but he doesn't want to talk to anyone.”

That wasn't surprising, but Kent still felt like he was made out of lead. Heavy and cold and numb. He didn't say anything, just waited for Mr. Z to talk again.

”I know it was awful for you to be the one who found him. I can't imagine. But if you hadn't then --” he cut himself off. Collected himself. “Thank you. I'm calling because we need to know. When you said you didn't know anything. That's true?”

”Yes,” Kent said resolutely. The back of his neck went hot and cold. He felt sick.

”I believe you, I just had to. Kent. I don't know what's going to happen next. I don't know anything. I don't know what Jack will do. But even if he never thanks you, I do. And so does Alicia. Whatever else happened, you saved his life that night.”

Mr. Z sounded close to tears. It made a few teardrops slip down Kent’s own cheek. He swallowed, hard, to keep down the sobs trapped in his throat.

“Yeah,” he said, not having any idea how to react to all this.

”It'll probably be a while before we talk again,” Mr. Z continued. His voice was steady again, mostly sounding like he had months ago before everything. “But make sure you keep the home number in your phone. We're here if you need us.”

”Thank you,” Kent whispered, forcing the words out.

”Take care, Kent.”

”You, too, Mr. Z.”

The other end of the line clicked dead. The phone slipped through Kent's fingers onto the floor. He stared at it. It wobbled in his field of vision as tears built up in his eyes.

”Oh, honey,” said Mom. Kent looked up to see her standing next to the bed in a fresh blouse with a towel wrapped around her head. She looked so sad. All it had taken was the name “Mr. Z.” When she sat down next to him and put her arms around him, he really lost it.

His body shook with unstoppable sobs as he finally let himself really cry, for the first time since June 26th. Mom just held him, running her fingers through his hair like he was a little kid again and telling him it would be alright.

It was all shot to hell.

 

 **2010**  
Kent’s first year in the NHL was a blur, and thank God for that.

Throughout the year, he kept thinking “what’s Jack doing.” With every milestone, there was a stab of disappointment under the current of triumph – Jack should’ve been here, too. I should’ve been comparing notes with him, chirping him, fighting neck and neck for the Calder. Instead, there was just that feeling of wrongness, the nagging doubt that maybe, just maybe, he’d stolen Jack’s draft position after all. And he’d never be able to know who really deserved that top pick.

He’d also never know what went wrong with Jack, not if Jack never talked to him again. When he went from just tightly wound to spiraling out of control. Whether there was anything Kent could’ve done to stop it and save him. He thought he’d had an eye on Jack. He thought he was helping Jack keep the drinking under control.

He’d thought Jack trusted him.

But thank God, he didn’t have the opportunity to dwell on any one thought for too long. The unrelenting pace of an 82 game season, the press attention that he got as the Aces’ bright-eyed rookie, and the never-ending party of the Strip didn’t leave a lot of room for it.

And then came the offseason, earlier than Kent hoped or wanted.

He didn’t have to worry about free agency, of course. He got through the season in great health, so no injuries or anything to worry about.

Just Jack. So he partied a little more than he should have.

“It’s a good thing you’re a charming drunk, but you’re also an underage drunk, and a famous drunk,” Max, the agent Mr. Z had referred him to, told him on the phone 2 weeks into his offseason.

“But I wasn’t on Deadspin or anything. Not even social media. I was careful,” Kent protested. “No one recognized me. How did you even know?”

“I have connections, Kent. It’s part of my job, you know. Use your brain, kid. We both know it’s a decent one.”

“Who ratted me out?”

“’Who helped me,’ you mean. I’m serious, Kent, you have an image to think of, and you’ve been really good at that all season. You can’t do this. You of all people.”

Bullseye. That was dirty, and Max damn well knew it.

“You’re right,” he said, cowed. “I’ll stop.”

After he got off the phone with Max, he dialed up Jenny, who was the financial advisor from the firm Mr. Z had recommended to him. Next he called a real estate agency that Jenny recommended and got some condo viewings on the books.

He’d spent the year living in Major’s spare room. And it had been nice, having access to someone who’d been around the block with the Aces a couple times and knew the city like the back of his hand. But Kent was ready to live on his own, and finding a condo would give him something to do. Maybe he could fly his mom out to help him decorate.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with you living on the Strip, Kent,” said Mom when he called to tell her he was going to move. He could hear some clanking in the background like she was doing dishes or something.

“Ma, I _work_ on the Strip. Anyway, that’s only one of the top contenders. The other one’s technically in Spring Valley.”

“Well, that’s the one that has my vote then. When are you planning on moving? August?”

“More like end of May,” Kent said.

“May? Kent, it is May!” Her voice went up a couple octaves and decibels. Kent held the phone back away from his ears.

“There are still two days left in April,” he pointed out.

“That’s… fast. What prompted this?”

“Why wait? I’ve been wanting to do this anyway. Besides, it’s not like there’s anything holding me up.”

There really wasn’t. It only took a couple weeks before the lease was signed. Packing was a breeze – Kent didn’t really have that much crap to bring along – and Major and his wife, Kelly, helped out. (“Our little rookie, all grown up and moving out,” Major had fake-cried on moving day.)

In the second week of June, Kent was already sleeping on a mattress on the floor in his new master suite. (“A mattress, really?” Kelly had asked. No point getting a real bed if he was still waiting on his decorator, anyway.)

When she arrived at his new condo a week after he’d moved in, the very first thing Mom said was: “Floor to ceiling windows? Along this whole wall? Your A/C costs are going to be through the roof.”

“I can afford it.” He shrugged. “Those are the best part, anyway.”

“Har har.” She ran her hand over the marble counter of the kitchen island. “Stainless steel appliances, too. These are nice.”

“We should do Thanksgiving here this year. Maybe Dad can join us.”

“You mean Greg?”

"How many other dads do you think you have, Kent?"

"I am not touching that one." It was like a game they'd been playing for the last couple years that they both hated, but they couldn’t stop. The world's worst slot machine. Press the button time after time and maybe you'll finally get a "sure, Mom, Dad can come to Thanksgiving or Christmas or whatever it is," but mostly you get no and another disappointment.

She dropped the subject without another word. That was also part of the game.

“Well,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “If we have to completely furnish this thing, we’d better not waste any time. Let’s hit the road, kiddo.”

Kent had overestimated his capacity for shopping. Major had been right: it was a good thing Kent brought his mom along. He hadn't realized couch pillows were important and he had to admit that, no, the blackout curtains weren't enough on their own. The drapes really brought it all together.

Putting in all the furniture and eating takeout with Mom was nice. He didn’t have to worry so much around Mom, keep as many secrets. She knew about him. He could just be relaxed and goofy with her.

And she knew about Jack – not everything, of course – but around her, he didn’t have to pretend like it wasn’t as fucked up as it was. He didn’t have to give PR-ready statements, didn’t need to hide what it really meant that they were best friends.

By the time Mom left a week later, his apartment looked like the kind of place someone really lived. He tweeted pics of the whole process. Here he was repainting the feature wall according to the condo board’s anal retentive standards, little streaks of blue paint in his hair. Here was his mom straightening pictures on the wall. A selfie in front of his awesome windows, with the lights of Vegas in the mid-distance. Some tweets gushing about how great Mom is, making fun of himself and how he didn’t really get colors (what is the difference between beige and taupe, seriously). The likes and retweets poured in.

He didn’t tweet about how his place still felt echoey, though. Kent worked out in one of the bedrooms he'd repurposed with a stationary bike and weights. He got quietly tipsy in the privacy of his own living room, just like Max would very nearly approve of. He went out with Major and the other guys who were still in town and came home and watched TV on his giant sectional.

It was still too quiet. Something was missing.

So, the next Saturday morning, he went to Adopt a Rescue Pet on Tropicana. It didn't look like it should be an animal shelter. Just some anonymous place in an anonymous strip mall.

He always thought he'd get a dog, but then this fluffy little kitten stood up on her hind legs as he passed and raked her paws across the plastic door of her cage. The pads of her toes dragged across it making a god-awful squeaking noise. She meowed and locked gazes with Kent. Her eyes were sparkly green and when she meowed at him, her little black nose crinkled up.

Well fuck, he thought and headed to the nearest attendant. When she handed the kitten over to Kent, it purred the second he reached out and took her. Her rib cage vibrated against his palm and she kneaded his shoulder like a tiny masseuse. She mewed again and he said "I want to adopt her, please."

He stopped by a PetCo on the way home. The kitten was in a little cardboard box that he put in a shopping cart while he bought cat food and little dishes and a litterbox and toys. She meowed constantly on the way home, like Kanye's off pitch backup singer.

Kent posted a picture of his full shopping cart to Twitter while waiting in line. "New roommate," he captioned it.

Once home, he opened the box and the kitten toddled out. Her little nose twitched as she sniffed out her new home. Kent just sat on the floor and watched her until she fell asleep on his couch, then went to grill a chicken breast for lunch.

The kitten woke up at some point, and when he turned around from getting a glass of water, she was there standing on his chair, peeking her little face over the edge of the table. It was cute as hell. He whipped out his phone and posted a quick photo to Twitter ("she thinks she's ppl"), then almost dropped his phone as he rushed to stop her from eating his lunch.

When he looked back at his phone later, there were a billion retweets. She's so cute, what's her name, etc etc.

And there was a DM from Mr. Z.

Kent had heard from him several times over the season. He occasionally popped up on Twitter and tweeted at Kent. Good job. Nice game. Congratulations on the Calder. Nothing too personal.

"Cute cat," said the DM. "A better idea than a dog. I knew a couple single guys who had dogs and it was a hassle for them."

Kent had kind of thought that this was over - the talking about non-hockey stuff. That Bad Bob Zimmermann was just a commenter like anyone else and that "good game" was all he'd ever hear.

Apparently not.

"Yeah I really like the kitt so far" he messaged back.

“You did a great job this season. I’m sure your next season will be longer. You’re at loose ends right now aren’t you?”

“A little. How are you and mrs Z?”

“Good.”

Kent hesitated and then typed, “And Jack?”

There was a long pause before he got an answer. “Doing fine. He’s back home. Looking at job applications.”

Job applications? Red-hot anger course through Kent. All those years of hockey and Jack was going to throw it all away on some shitty degree and end up working in an office? How could you DO that? How could you just abandon everything? He’d already tossed Kent aside, and now hockey, too?

“Cool,” was all he typed back. He threw his phone onto his bed and stalked out of the room to go find his kitten. He ended up working out for two hours before taking an angry nap on the couch with the kitten.

When he woke up, she was still nestled on his shoulder and wedged against his jaw. She was purring non-stop. It was incredibly soothing. He smiled, and turned his head to bury his nose in her soft tabby fur. As the sun set outside, he let himself drift back to sleep.

Later, he looked at his phone. There was another DM from Mr. Z. “We should talk more.”

 

 **2012**  
The sheer number of camera flashes were like a scene from a dumb old movie. The effect didn’t help to make it feel any more real that, the next day, Kent would be playing his first ever Cup Finals game - the first finals game to ever be played in Vegas. After three hard-fought rounds, his body was one dull ache, but his non-stop adrenaline rush lifted him above it all.

”What are you most looking forward to?” one journalist from the Las Vegas Sun asked him.

”My mom’s flying in from Rochester tomorrow morning to see the first game. She’s worked as hard as I have to get me here, so it’s really special she’ll be in the stands tomorrow.” He completely meant it, of course. He also knew it was going to play great as a soundclip. There were a few more questions, mostly about what the Aces had learned from their last - much shorter - post-season, and then Brenda the PR Chick wrapped things up and ushered the team out.

Kent kicked off his shoes and collapsed on his couch immediately when he got into his condo. Kitt hopped up on to his chest, burrowing the top of her head against his chin and purring hard while she kneaded his neck. Her giant, fluffy tail twitched, thumping softly against the side of the couch. Coming off the crowds and noise of the presser and into the silence of his glass and stainless steel loft was always like stepping into an air-conditioned room from a scorching summer day in Vegas. Lying on the sectional, if he turned his head, the wall of windows offered a perfect view of the Nevada sunset. It was still hard to believe he’d come all the way here from the 900 square foot apartment he and Mom had lived in.

He was about to start dozing off when his phone rang. Kitt groaned in protest as he fished his phone out of his pocket and answered it without looking.

”Hello?”

”Hi, Kent.”

”Hi, Bob,” Kent said, craning his neck away from Kitt so she couldn’t interfere with the conversation. “How’s it going?”

”Good, good. Alicia’s with me.”

”Hi, Kent!”

Kent smiled. He only heard from the Zimmermanns a couple times a year, but it was always nice. They didn’t have any particular reason to call - hell, they probably had some good reasons to never call Kent again; at least, he wouldn’t blame them if they made that choice - but they still did.

”Ready for tomorrow? You’be been playing well. Avoiding injuries?”

”Don’t jinx me man.” He heard Alicia giggle in the background. She was often audible during his phone calls with Bob. Sometimes he chatted with her, too. It was nice. Comfortable.

”Hang on a minute,” said Bob. Then, “Okay, you’re on speaker.”

”Hi, Kent,” Alicia piped up. “You ready for tomorrow?”

”As I'll ever be.”

”Good answer,” said Bob. “That's how it feels every time. “You just keep an eye on your penalty minutes, son. That'll get you if you aren't careful. You’re usually pretty good about it, but I've seen you about to lose your temper a couple times this postseason. If you’re going to lose it and take stupid penalties, finals is the time.” He had his Coach Dad voice on.

”Right.” Alicia drifted in and out of the conversation as Bob gave advice and more advice about everything: specific pointers for how Kent could contribute more on the power play, how to find ways to treat these games like any others, ways these games were completely unique and on and on.

It was all good advice, but Kent was still exhausted. 15 minutes in, he started just making appreciative hums and going “ah, yeah, true.” He wondered if Bob wished he were saying all this to Jack. If Kent was being honest, Bob probably felt that way about a lot of the things he said to Kent.

”I miss Jack.” he said, and then froze.

A sharp intake of breath from Bob.

A country away from each other, they clenched their phones in tight fists. Outside there was a siren. Kitt bumped his chin and chirped.

”You still haven’t talked to him?” Bob asked finally. He sounded disappointed.

”No,” Kent admitted in a small voice. “Does he still like... college?”

Lame. Lame. _Lame._

”Yes,” Bob answered. “He’s making good friends. He likes his classes, his hockey team.”

”Good to know he didn’t totally give up,” Kent spat out. He immediately wished he could take it back.

”Kent.” Bob’s voice went sharp as a blade. “You should think about reaching out. I mean, really think about it, Kent.”

Was that a warning in his voice? Kent could usually read Bob pretty well, but now he wasn’t sure. He felt awful, ashamed. And he’d been so good at saying the right thing for the last two years.

”I’m sorry, Bob. Forget this part of the conversation?”

”That’s a good idea.”

Kent cleared his throat. “So. You want tickets to one of the games?”

Bob laughed. “Ha! As if I needed you to get tickets.”

And just like that, it was back to what it had been.

 

**2014**

How do you tell someone you look up to that you used him to wreck his son? How do you explain being so fucked up to someone you both care about? Care about so much it makes your heart ache.

_Sorry, Bob. I ambushed your son and said fucking awful shit to him because I love him, and we never managed to say that to each other. And I need him._

And I hate him for not needing me. For fucking me up.

Hey, Bob, I just wanted to let you know I crashed a frat party and made out with your son. You know, like when we were teenagers, oh, didn’t he ever mention we’re gay? Oops, well now you know, sorry, not sorry, hope you’re cool with it. And I tried to give him the world on a platter and he fucking shot me down. Because if I’m being honest, he’s a damned moron, is why, and fuck him if he’d rather play with a bunch of second-raters than be with me again.

He’d parked at the hotel, then walked to a nearby 7-11 where he bought a beer he pounded on his way back to the room. He stumbled inside, not giving a damn if he woke up Soupy. Kent hid his phone in his suitcase, and then wobbled off to the bathroom.

There was a hot mess in the mirror. His eyes were red and puffy. He splashed water in his face and brushed his teeth. He stared into the mirror and thought about the moment when Jack started kissing him back, before things went FUBAR. He ripped off his hat and tried fixing his hair, but it didn’t help. He wanted to go to sleep. Instead, he just zoned out in front of the mirror.

”Fuck you,” he muttered bitterly.

\----

“Mom, I fucked up,” he said, on Christmas Eve.

She shot him a dark look over her mixing bowl. 

”Sorry,” he replied.

”If you’re going to cuss up a storm in my kitchen, make yourself useful. Here. Stir in that bag of walnuts.”

”Yes, ma’am,” he accepted the bowl she handed over. For some damn reason, his grandmother loved fruit cake. So, every December, a couple days before Christmas, Mom would heat up the oven, pull out some candied fruit, and pour herself some Barefoot wine. He’d tried bringing her a better vintage (so, any kind of real wine), but she insisted the Barefoot was the fruit cake wine, and he gave that argument up pretty fast. Some fights just weren’t worth fighting.

She poured herself a glass. “You want?”

”No thanks.”

She shrugged and hopped up to sit on the counter. “Your loss. So. You messed up.”

”Yeah. I messed up. I went to Samwell again. Jack’s team was having a party, and I kind of... crashed it.”

”Oh, Kent.” Based on her voice, he knew exactly what her eyes looked like. So he fixed his gaze on the batter he was stirring.

”I know! I know it was stupid, he never listens! I just miss --” He managed to cut himself off before he said anything he’d regret. But then the words just kept pouring out. “I miss having him on my team. It would’ve been great for the Aces, and we could’ve made the cap space, but he just threw it all back in my face!”

Kent slammed the bowl down on the counter. ”And we got into a fight. I -- said some stuff that was out of bounds. But I’m just trying to _help_!” He was practically yelling. He didn’t mean to do that.

”Kent. What were you thinking?”

”I don’t know, I guess I wasn’t.”

”Damn right you weren’t! Whatever you said, you shouldn’t have been there anyway. What kind of adult crashes a college party?”

He cringed away from her voice.

”Look at me.” She had gotten down from the counter and put her hands on his shoulders so she could do a better job of bitching him out. “You’re an adult. Or you’re supposed to be. What’s more, you’re a public figure, so you damn well better remember it and act like it. If you ever crash _any_ party again, college or otherwise.”

There apparently wasn’t an ending to the threat, but there didn’t need to be. He’d never seen her this mad before.

”More importantly, I know you miss Jack. I know you love him. But you can’t treat people like that. I know it hurts, but if he wanted to talk to you, he would. You have the right to be left alone, and so does he.”

”I know, I -” He looked up as what she had just said dawned on him. “L- he’s just. He’s my best friend.” It didn’t even sound convincing to him.

”You are so thoughtless, Kent,” she said, and he didn’t know the word to describe her tone of voice.

So, Kent made sure he thought, long and hard. He made sure he was being logical the next time he picked up his phone and sent Jack a text.

_hey_

_yo_

_sup_

_jack_

_sup_

_look dude im sorry_

_i’m really sorry_

_that wasn’t cool_

_hey jack i know youre reading these dork. You know the bubbles change color and it tells me right?_

_can i call you_

_Cut it out parse._

_I don’t want to talk._

_jack im sorry_

_come on please let me call you_

_we need to talk_

_you’ll be in providence next year. Youll end up seeing me again if you want to or not_

_so lets not fight_

_dude come on_

_i want to talk to you_

_Don’t call me. I won’t pick up._

_ok_

_im sorry jack_

 

 **2016**  
For over a year, Kent hadn’t talked to Jack. He hadn’t even tried. No texting, no emails, no nothing. They had played against each other once during Jack’s first season in the NHL, and he’d successfully pretended that Jack was the same as any other player, and it had been _torture_ , but he’d done it. He never even talked to anyone about Jack except for when the press asked questions about what it was like to see him playing in the NHL finally, and then he only talked about how well Jack was playing and how he deserved this chance.

Absolute cold turkey.

And before he knew it, the NHL Awards rolled around, and he was in a giant hotel room full of reporters, and League suits, and players, and their families.

And the Zimmermanns.

“Angela, good to see you again!” Bob said, giving Kent’s mom a hug.

”Same,” she said smiling back at him.

”Hey, Kent,” said Bob as he clapped Kent on the shoulder. “Nice suit. You’re getting real classy, son. Big change.”

”Har har.” Kent rolled his eyes. ”Where’s Alicia?” he asked. He did _not_ ask about Jack.

Bob laughed his perfect press conference laugh. “I lost track of her at the cash bar. I’ll tell her you’re looking for her, though.”

”Mmmm, cash bar. I hear it calling my name,” said Mom, winking at Bob. “If I don’t see you guys again, wish Jack good luck for me.”

”Wish him luck from me too,” added Kent as she walked away.

”Why don’t you do it yourself?” Bob asked, neutrally.

Kent took a deep breath and sighed heavily. “Let’s. Can we talk? Tomorrow morning, maybe?”

”Sure,” Bob said, in a knowing tone. “We’re in town tomorrow still. Jack wanted to drag us to the Museum of Atomic History, I think. Also, one of his friends is flying in today, and they’re staying a couple more days after.”

”Oh. That sounds good.” Kent scribbled directions to a Starbucks on the Strip. It was huge, always packed with tourists and last night's drunks. No one would be likely to notice them. “Want to grab a quick coffee tomorrow morning?”

”Sure.”

Then they parted ways and went back to their tables so they could wait to find out whether Jack got the Calder or Kent got the Hart.

”Does… does Jack ever mention me?”

”Now and then. What’s this about, Kent?”

”My mom suggested I ‘use my words.’ Look. I’m not good with this kind of stuff. But. I really miss being friends with Jack. I mean, I’m glad I still talk to you and Alicia. You guys’re great. It’s just. I dunno. I miss him. And I know college, like, changes people or whatever. So I.” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I don’t know what I’m asking.”

Bob regarded him silently for a moment. “Alright. Jack’s always been a complicated person. He keeps a lot on the inside. Before he went to college, I was worried that what happened,” he took a deep breath. “That his overdose would only make it worse. But that didn’t happen. He’s better. He’s happier, but he’s still quiet. I still don’t know why he’s not talking to you, not really. I like you, Kent. I’ve always thought of you as being part of the family. So has Alicia.”

Kent bit his bottom lip and waited for Bob to continue. He was overwhelmed.

”But there’s something you never shared with us. I guess it’s why Jack doesn’t talk to you.”

Kent didn’t know what to say. He stared down at the table. “Look… Back then, Jack was just. I dunno. Sometimes I did worry about him. He just wouldn’t stop freaking out about stuff all the time. And maybe I saw him drink more than he should have a couple times, but I thought.” His voice cracked and he took a drink of coffee before continuing. “I thought he would just get better, I guess. I swear, I didn’t know about the pills, Bob.”

Kent glanced up. Bob was staring at him levelly, but his knuckles were white, he was gripping his mug so hard. Kent swallowed and went on. “I just… l- really cared about him. And I can’t stand he’s gone on and become a whole new person or whatever and he doesn’t want anything to do with me. I’ve changed too. I just.” But he couldn’t say what he just. Bob had a weird look, like pieces of a puzzle were coming together in his head.

Bob sighed. “I’ll put in a word for you, Kent. But I can’t make any promises.”

”Thanks.”

”And Kent? Be careful.”

”Huh?”

Bob got up and pushed his chair back in. “I’ve got to go if I don’t want to throw off the itinerary for the museum trip. Thanks for the coffee, Kent.”

”Yeah, anytime.” Kent watched Bob go and wondered what he had meant about being careful, what he was thinking.

Bob must have been true to his word, because when Kent texted Jack that evening, asking if they could meet up, he actually got a reply: yes. So, he texted Jack the address of the same cafe and spent the rest of evening tormenting Kitt by playing keep away with a hackey sack before going to bed and not quite sleeping.

Kent sat in one of the back tables, the brim of his snapback pulled low over his eyes, trying keep an eye on the door while still appearing to be engrossed in his phone. He’d arrived way earlier than Jack had agreed to meet him because he finally couldn’t stand just sitting around home waiting. The coffee in front of him had gone cold.

He couldn’t shake the fear that Jack wouldn’t show. Or the fear that Jack would show.

And then, there he was. Right on time. He always had been ridiculously punctual. He caught Kent’s eye and nodded to him before joining the line to order, which gave Kent some time to think up his brilliant opening gambit.

”Hey.” He said when Jack sat down across from him, coffee in hand. Looked like he still took his coffee black.

”Hey,” Jack said back. An awkward silence followed.

Yeah, things were off to a great start.

”Sooo,” Kent drew the syllable out, scrambling for actual words. ”Uh... Your dad said you guys were going to some museum yesterday?”

”The National Atomic Testing Museum.”

”Cool. Cool.”

And more awkward silence.

”Congrats on the Calder,” he tried again. “You really earned it. You had a great year. It’s good to see you back out on the ice.”

”Thanks,” Jack said. “What do you want, Parse? My dad said I should hear you out. Why the hell are you talking with him?”

”I never stopped.”

Jack narrowed his eyes at that. “He never said anything.”

Kent shrugged. “I don’t know, man. I guess he knew you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

”This again?” Jack shook his head, clearly exasperated. “I’m tired of this, Kent, and I’m not going to let you push me around any more.”

”Push you around?” Kent scoffed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? Dude, I’ve changed too. I’m not going to try to -- what do you even think I’m going to try to get you to do?”

”Look, I don’t have time for this,” Jack dodged his question. “I have to get back to the airport to meet my boyfriend, so if you called me out to - I don’t know, tell me you missed me, I’m just going to leave.”

”I didn’t - that’s not why. I just - wait, did you just say ‘boyfriend?’”

”Yes, but that-”

”Whoah, whoah,” Kent cut him off. “You have a secret boyfriend, and you’re telling me?”

“Yes.”

“Why the hell would you do that? Aren’t you afraid I’ll ruin it or some shit?”

He sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Whatever else, I know I can trust you with a secret like this.”

“Why,” Kent scoffed. “Because if I blab people might connect the dots and figure out I’m gay? Mutually assured destruction or whatever.”

“No,” Jack responded. “Because I trust you with this, Kenny. You can be a jerk but you can keep a secret.”

Kent ignored the insult. “What the hell does _that_ mean? You cut me out of your life for _eight years_ but you _trust_ me?”

Jack’s eyes went stony, which was the worst possible sign. Kent took a deep breath, counted to ten. “Sorry. Sorry, Zimms. I just don’t get it.”

“What do you want from me, Kent?”

“I don’t know. I know we can’t go back. I know we fucked it up too bad.”

“You want, what, to be friends again?”

“I don’t know, Zimms, maybe. Just something. Just.” He squeezed his eyes shut. This was so embarrassing. Here he was again, begging. Like always.

Jack shifted in his seat, probably trying to think of the best way to rip Kent’s heart out again.

“You know,” he began. His tone was thoughtful. “A couple years ago, I told someone that you and I owe each other a lot of apologies. I guess that’s still true. I guess… we should say them.”

Kent looked up, ready to snap that _he’d_ said sorry, a million times.

But.

Jack’s eyes were pure and clear - thoughtful - and he was finally relaxed into his chair instead of sitting ramrod straight. There was a bubble of hope in Kent’s heart. This felt so different from the last two times he’d seen Jack in person. And maybe it was. Maybe Kent was different, finally.

”So, we just apologize now and start over?”

Jack snorted, but he was grinning a tiny grin. “I guess, yeah.”

”That seems too easy.”

”It’s worth a shot. Might as well try.”

”I’m sorry, Zimms. For everything.”

”I’m sorry, too, Kenny.”

They stared blankly at each other, waiting for a switch to flip and the tension to dissipate. All around them, people ordered coffee, and laughed with friends, and phoned clients, and typed away at their novels. And then there were the two of them, sitting, waiting. Kent hoped Jack was hoping too.

He broke the silence. “Okay, so, now we’re BFFs again,” Kent said with a smirk.

Jack laughed, and that did it. “For sure.” Relief swept through Kent. He did his best not to let it show.

”What now?” Kent asked. “Does this mean we’re back on speaking terms? The next time we play against each other, we go out for drinks? Skype occasionally?”

”I guess so, maybe,” Jack fiddled with his mug. He hadn’t had a drop of his coffee. “I was being serious about having to go to the airport, earlier. I should leave if I’m going to be on time.”

 _Wow, you really were just planning on showing up long enough to tell me to go to hell,_ Kent thought but didn’t say. Instead, he replied, “Okay.”

Jack stood up. “Later?”

”Later,” Kent answered. Jack hesitated, like he didn’t know if he should shake Kent’s hand or go around the table to give him a hug. Instead of doing either of those things, he nodded once, and left Kent alone and dazed in the most crowded Starbucks on the Strip, staring into a cup of cold coffee.

After, Kent went back to his apartment where he sat by the windows, plopping onto the floor like a kid. Kitt wandered over and flopped down next to him with a little cat groan. Her long, fluffy fur was sun-warmed, and he buried his fingers in one of her tabby patches. She purred, and it vibrated against the palm of his hand.

He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Bob. “Thanks.”

 

 **2018**  
After their meeting in the cafe, everything was the same for months.

But then a few texts dribbled through. It was like a tiny leak opening in the ceiling. They started off as congratulations, mostly (saw ur hilight reel great goal, You’ve gotten so much better at fighting since Juniors. Maybe someday you’ll win a go.)

Eventually, the texts changed and became more personal. He sent Jack more pictures of Kitt than anyone would probably ever want. It was great and also painful as Kent learned about Jack’s boyfriend, Eric, who was some kid from the Samwell hockey team. He never talked with Eric directly, which he suspected Jack was doing completely on purpose.

_Eric is making me ask if you can get cheap tickets to Beyonce’s Vegas show. He says you have to have connections._

_i dont_

_He says to tell you bless your heart._

_aw tell him thx_

Then, after Kent got the call, he got a text: _Congratulations on being chosen, Kenny._ A handful of days later, Kent was able to shoot back, “u 2 see u at the olympics zimms USA USA USA” with an American flag emoticon.

_Yeah. We should hang out in PyeongChang._

_really?_

_Yeah. It would be good._

And that's how Kent and Jack ended up waiting for their parents in front of the Olympic Village. It was a beautiful, crisp afternoon. He was at the Olympics, standing next to Jack, and it was all he had wanted for years.

”You’re sure you don’t mind also going shopping?”

“‘Course I don’t mind shopping. I did promise my dad a souvenir.”

Jack looked over, surprised. “I thought you didn’t talk to him.”

“I didn’t used to,” Kent said pointedly. “But Mom finally won the ‘should we invite him to Thanksgiving’ argument. And now apparently I owe him an Olympic souvenir. For some damn reason. I dunno what to get him though.”

”How’s that going?”

”Eh, it’ll be okay. I want to get something free.”

”No, I meant, talking to your dad.”

Kent shrugged. “Okay, I guess. He’s still kind of a shithead, but he’s not as bad as I used to think.”

”Like father, like son.”

”Really? You asshole. What are you going to get Eric?”

Jack shrugged. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

”Sucks he can’t be here,” Kent commented. He'd finally been allowed to talk to Eric over Skype, and he actually did like the kid. He hadn’t at first. He was too fucking cute - cloying, even. But then Eric had made pie. And Kent had to admit, he’d never seen Jack so happy, even if he hoped it was just time that had taken care of that.

“Hey. Hey, Zimms, is your boy the jealous type? Does he know that, in 2014, in Sochi? Every athlete got, like, 15 condoms. On average or whatever. No joke. That’s THOUSANDS of condoms. We’re covered is what I’m saying. In more ways than one. Heyo!”

Jack blinked and glared like Kitt did when she didn’t think Kent had given her enough food.

”Up top.” Kent held his hand up. “C’mon, don’t leave me hanging.”

Jack rolled his eyes. If Kent was being honest, that was one of the things he’d missed most about Jack over the years, because it meant that Jack was cracking up on the inside, and it was just for Kent. He nudged Jack in the ribs with his elbow.

Without looking, Jack reached over and yanked Kent’s beanie down over his eyes. Kent flailed his arms, but Jack’s arm was around his neck, and his fists only hit the air. “Augh, you _dick_!” he yelled.

”Kent Parson. Language!” came Mom’s voice.

”He’s sorry, Mrs. Parson.”

”Jack, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Angela?”

Alicia shrugged at her. “What can I say. He’s basically just a Canadian stereotype. I did my best, but it’s out of my hands now. He’s hopeless.”

Jack finally released Kent and stepped forward to join their moms. The three of them walked down the street. Bob hung back and fell in with Kent.

“Hey, Kent. This feels familiar, huh?”

“What?” Kent looked up at him, a little confused.

“Remember World Juniors? When you lost? To Jack.” Man, he and Jack really did have the same little grin when they chirped you. It was borderline eerie.

Kent stopped and crossed his arms over his chest. “.... did you seriously just.” Bob stopped too and just kept grinning at him. Kent rolled his eyes in return.

”Hey! Keep up, boys,” said Alicia, looking back at them.

”Yeah, yeah,” Kent called ahead to them. “We’ll catch up in a second.” Jack was glancing over his shoulder, too, and at that, his eyes narrowed a little. He cocked his head to the side, then shrugged, apparently to himself, and kept walking with their moms.

“Hard to believe it’s been ten years, isn’t it?” asked Bob. He started walking again. “You’ve both come so far.”

“Geez. Yeah.”

“I’d offer you Olympic advice, but you don’t really need it, do you?”

“Sure I do. You always have great advice.” Kent grinned at Bob. “Really. Thanks, Bob.” He checked him with his shoulder. “For everything.”

”Any time, son.” Bob checked him back, and Kent stumbled a little to the side. Those Zimmermanns, always throwing their weight around.

Grinning, he and Bob followed the others down the street. Everyone was right where they should be. It was a perfect day, and the future was bright.

**Author's Note:**

> When I got a request for Bad Bob being a supportive father figure to Kent, I couldn't resist going with that. And since you also mentioned you liked the headcanon of Kent having a cool single mom, I threw her into the mix. Also, Kitt Purrson (nooooo, she is in no way inspired by my dumb cats, uh uh). Didn't do Jack/Kent end game (sorry), but other than that, kinda went a little bit kitchen sink on it. Hope it hangs together and you like it!
> 
> Thanks, as ever, to [rayemars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rayemars) for the beta and for being so sweet about me being all "wow, this fic is long" (for context, she writes novel-length monsters - actual long fic).


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